


Cities Never Sleep

by phoenixyfriend



Category: Also slight hints of "Scandinavia and the World", Girl Genius (Webcomic), but only for a single small scene so I'm not tagging it properly
Genre: Beetleburg, Castle Wulfenbach, F/F, F/M, Fairy Tales, Gen, M/M, Multi, Paris - Freeform, Pax Transylvania, Shining Coalition, Sturmhalten, The Shining Coalition, Wulfenbach, belgrade, mechanicsburg - Freeform, places as people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-23
Packaged: 2019-07-29 01:07:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16253519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixyfriend/pseuds/phoenixyfriend
Summary: Personifications are a recurring phenomena in literature the world over. For countries, even more so. From the classics of Uncle Sam and Mother Russia, of Mother Canada and John Bull, Adelita and Dame Wales and so many more, to the modern takes of Scandinavia and the World, and Hetalia, and yet more, the idea of a country as a person has found itself repeated again and again and again.So it has been in our world.And so it is in theirs.Only for them... it's real.





	1. AUs - Fairy Tales - Crossovers

**Author's Note:**

> Let's all just blame the Girl Genius Discord and my own decision to make an event for this, yeah?

Ages ago, millennia, so long that only the Dreen and, perhaps, Queen Albia, remember, humans began to form societies.

Even before, animals had built communities for themselves. Murders of crows, packs of wolves, herds of deer... all were normal. Standard. And...

Well, there wasn't really a way to _tell_ , for so long.

Communal spirits, as the great human cities and the little towns and the traveling caravans proved, were very good at hiding.

o.o.o.o.o

_"Once upon a time," Lilith read. Agatha nestled deep in her blankets and waited. She was nine years old, and like fairy tales, because they didn't make her head hurt, except sometimes in a good way when she was very sad and cried at an ending._

There was a King. He was not a Spark, but his people loved him, and he was just. His son was also not a Spark, but the son was cruel in ways that the King was not.

One day, the King spoke to his son, and he said, “You must go to the Great Spark of the North. Return to me with a tree of ice that grows without fuel and does not melt. Gain his favor while you are there.”

The son was angry, but he knew that his father was thinking to pass him over for the throne, and leave it to a cousin instead. The son swallowed his pride and agreed, and that night he rode off to the north.

The son rode for seven days, and came upon the castle of the Great Spark of the North, hidden in the snowy mountains. He hammered upon the door and said, “O Great Spark of the North! My father has sent me to retrieve a tree of ice that grows without fuel and does not melt! Give one to me, so that I may return to him!”

The doors opened, and the Great Spark of the North came out. He spoke grandly, and said, “O Prince of the Kingdom. Your father is a wise man, but you are not. I will build a tree of ice that grows without fuel and does not melt for him, but you must gather the materials so that I may do so. You must bring me the eye of a sky wurm, the heart of a reindeer, and the tooth of a Siberian Tiger. Only then will I be able to create the tree your father desires.”

The Prince rode off with frustration in his heart. He tracked the nest of a sky wurm, and found that it was three times larger than his horse. He found that he could not fight it, and so he stole into the nest in the night and killed the wurm where it slept, and plucked the eye from its socket, for he could not take the entire wurm with him to gain favor with the Great Spark of the North.

The Prince did not track the reindeer, but killed one where it stood at a farm. He ignored the wails of the family that had raised the reindeer, and cut out the heart. When they asked for payment for the creature’s death, he sneered at them and informed them that he was the Prince, and left.

_“The Prince purchased the tooth from a tourist shop,” Lilith said, and at this, she paused. She looked at Agatha and nodded. “Tourists can be useful, and the shop owners do enjoy being able to sell things, but tourists are often quite annoying. The Prince was a tourist.”_

_Agatha nodded eagerly, and Lilith continued, once again in her storyteller voice._

The Prince returned to the Great Spark of the North with his prizes, and was given a room. For three days and three nights, the Prince ignored the mad laughter of the Spark, and took the tree that was presented to him at the end with calm. Remembering his father’s request to curry favor, the Prince thanked the Great Spark of the North. The Great Spark of the North gave the Prince a letter, and the Prince rode home.

The King greeted his son as he returned home, and read the letter before he placed the tree in an empty hall. “This hall will be home to your trophies,” the King said, and his son swelled with pride. The King then said, “but you have much to learn. The Great Spark of the North has told me that you did not hunt fairly for the ingredients he needed, and only truly hunted the sky wurm. You have much to learn.”

The King continued, “You must go to the Great Spark of the West. Return to me with a bowl of fish that has no container but does not spill. Gain her favor while you are there.”

The son rode out with a letter in his hand, sealed by the King’s personal Spark so that the son himself could not open it. The son rode for seven days, and came upon the villa of the Great Spark of the West, at the edge of the great sea. He hammered upon the door and said, “O Great Spark of the West! My father has sent me to retrieve a bowl of fish that has no container but does not spill! Give one to me, so that I may return to him!”

The doors opened, and the Great Spark of the West came out. She spoke calmly, and said, “O Prince of the Kingdom. Your father is a wise man, but you are not. I will build a bowl of fish that has no container but does not spill for him, but you must create the energy that I will use to do so. Only then will I be able to create the bowl your father desires.”

The Great Spark of the West led the Prince to a wheel as tall as his eyes were high, and told him to turn the wheel until she said to stop.

“But how shall I know that I have done the work you need for the bowl, and that you are not having me do more work besides?” The Prince asked.

“If you do more, consider it payment,” the Great Spark of the West said, and left the Prince to turn the wheel. He stewed in anger, but began to turn the wheel. He sweat, and grew tired, and cursed aloud. He gave up, and the Great Spark of the West came to him in a rage.

“Why have you stopped?!” She demanded. “My work is not yet complete!”

The Prince said, “I am tired, O Great Spark of the West. I am hungry and wish to sleep. You project is tiresome, and I suspect you are simply using me.”

The Spark grew angry, and told the Prince, “I have not yet completed my task. If you stop your work, then you shall return emptyhanded to your father.”

“So be it,” the Prince said, and rode home.

The King greeted his son at the doors. He asked, “My son, have you returned to me with a bowl of fish that has no container but does not spill?”

The son said, “No. The Spark did use me most unpleasantly, and the work was beneath me. She had minions that could have done as I did, but did not use them.”

The King did not grow angry, but he did not allow the son into his home. “Return to the Great Spark of the West. Beg for her forgiveness. Return to me with a bowl of fish that has no container but does not spill.”

The son rode off, and he raged. He stopped at the edge of his father’s city, and drew his sword. Knowing that his father the King would not give him the throne if he killed a peasant, the son proceeded to destroy a tree. At length, an old man in cloth of faded gold came to him, and asked, “What ails you, my child?”

“I am not your child,” the King’s son said. “And my problems are no business of yours.”

“I am old,” the man said. “I am wiser than most on account of my age. Perhaps I can help you.”

The son turned to him, and he spoke. “My father wishes for me to visit the Great Sparks of the Four Corners of the World, and gather impossible creations. The Great Spark of the West had me turning a wheel, and did not allow me to rest ere her work was finished. I grew tired, and she sent me home, and my father refuses to allow me into my home without a bowl of fish that has no container but does not spill.”

The old man spoke. “You are a prince, my child. You hope to be king. A king must be willing to put in endless, thankless work for his people, even when the reward does not seem to be immediately worth it to him. Your father does not wish to put a king on his throne who is unwilling to work for long hours, even when tired, for days and nights as is needed, nor a king who does not understand the importance and difficulty of the work of minions and peasants. Go to the Spark of the West, and apologize, and prove to your father that you are determined enough to be a king.”

The son rode to the West, and arrived once more to the villa of the Great Spark of the West. He knocked upon the door, and said “O Great Spark of the West! I have come to apologize for my behavior, and perform for you the work to create a bowl of fish that has no container but does not spill!”

The doors opened, and the Great Spark of the West came out. She spoke calmly, and said, “O Prince of the Kingdom. You have gained some wisdom. You will spend three days and three nights turning the wheel so that I may create a bowl of fish that has no container but does not spill for your father. Then you may return home.”

For three days and three nights, the Prince turned the wheel, and upon the morning of the fourth day, the Great Spark of the West presented him with the bowl of fish that had no container but did not spill. Remembering his father’s request to curry favor, the Prince thanked the Great Spark of the West. The Great Spark of the West gave the Prince a letter, and the Prince rode home.

The King greeted his son as he returned home, and read the letter before he placed the hovering sphere of water filled with fish in the hall with the tree of ice. “This hall is the home to your trophies, and you have added to it well,” the King said, and his son swelled with pride. The King then said, “but you have much to learn.”

The King continued, “You must go to the Great Spark of the South. Return to me with a book of stories that needs no reader and tells itself. Gain his favor while you are there.”

The son rode out with a letter in his hand, sealed by the King’s personal Spark so that the son himself could not open it. The son rode for seven days, and came upon the mansion of the Great Spark of the South, at the side of an oasis in the desert. He hammered upon the door and said, “O Great Spark of the South! My father has sent me to retrieve a book of stories that needs no reader and tells itself! Give one to me, so that I may return to him!”

The doors opened, and the Great Spark of the South came out. He spoke gravely, and said, “O Prince of the Kingdom. Your father is a wise man, but you are not. I will build a book of stories that needs no reader and tells itself, but you must gather the stories it tells. Only then will I be able to create the book your father desires.”

The Great Spark of the South led the Prince to the center of the village that sat on the other side of the oasis. The Great Spark of the South spoke. “You must listen to the stories of the people in this village, and write them all in this book. Return to me when you have filled every page.”

The Prince remembered his previous lesson, and sat for many hours writing in the book as the villagers spoke. From the oldest woman to the youngest child that yet knew words, he wrote.

The Prince, however, was uncaring. He did not care for the stories that he was told, and left out details and words that meant much to the stories he was told. He wrote with large letters and rushed, leaving smudges on the papers. He—

_“That’s bad!” Agatha exclaimed. “Uncle Barry said that if you leave smudges, then you can’t check your research later!”_

_“That’s right,” Lilith said, smiling. “Very good, Agatha. Would you like me to continue the story?”_

_Agatha nodded eagerly, and waited._

He told the stories wrong, and he did not care for the villagers as he recorded them.

The Prince brought his book of village stories to the Great Spark of the South. The Great Spark of the South turned the pages of the book, and spoke. “There is no heart or soul in these stories, and you have not gathered all the stories of the village. I cannot use this book to create what your father asked for. You must write another.”

The Prince raged. “I have done as you asked!” he yelled. “I have recorded the stories! I sat for many hours, even as I grew hungry and tired and cold!”

“But you did not care, and you did it wrong,” the Great Spark of the South said. “You must write another, or you shall return emptyhanded to your father.”

“So be it,” the Prince said, and rode home.

The King greeted his son at the doors. He asked, “My son, have you returned to me with a book of stories that needs no reader and tells itself?”

The son said, “No. I did the work that the Spark asked of me, but he told me I had done it wrong, for I had written the stories, and he claimed that I had not put any heart into it.”

The King did not grow angry, but he did not allow the son into his home. “Return to the Great Spark of the South. Beg for his forgiveness. Return to me with a book of stories that needs no reader and tells itself.”

The son rode off, and he raged. He stopped at the edge of his father’s city, and drew his dagger. Knowing that his father the King would not give him the throne if he killed a peasant, the son proceeded to carve a hole into a wooden post. At length, the old man in cloth of faded gold came to him, and asked, “What ails you, my child?”

“I am not your child,” the King’s son said. “And my problems are still no business of yours.”

“I am old,” the man said. “I am wiser than most on account of my age. Perhaps I can help you once more.”

The son turned to him, and he spoke. “My father wishes for me to visit the Great Sparks of the Four Corners of the World, and gather impossible creations. The Great Spark of the South had me collecting stories from the village by his home, and I did as he asked. He said that I had done it wrong, and had not cared enough for the people whose stories I collected. He sent me home, and my father refuses to allow me into my home without a book of stories that needs no reader and tells itself.”

The old man spoke. “You are a prince, my child. You hope to be king. A king must be willing to listen to the words of his people, even when he does not see the inherent value of their stories. Your father does not wish to put a king on his throne who is unwilling to hear the advice or problems of his subjects, nor a king who does not see the importance of admitting to his mistakes and working to correct them. Go to the Spark of the South, and apologize, and prove to your father that you are humble enough to be a king.”

The son rode to the South, and arrived once more to the mansion of the Great Spark of the South. He knocked upon the door, and said “O Great Spark of the South! I have come to apologize for my behavior, and gather the stories so that you may create a book of stories that needs no reader and tells itself!”

The doors opened, and the Great Spark of the South came out. He spoke gravely, and said, “O Prince of the Kingdom. You have gained some wisdom. You will spend three days and three nights gathering stories so that I may create a book of stories that needs no reader and tells itself for your father. Then you may return home.”

For three days and three nights, the Prince once more gathered stories with care, and upon the morning of the fourth day, the Great Spark of the South presented him with the book of stories that needed no reader and told itself. Remembering his father’s request to curry favor, the Prince thanked the Great Spark of the South. The Great Spark of the South gave the Prince a letter, and the Prince rode home.

The King greeted his son as he returned home, and read the letter before he placed the speaking book of moving pictures in the hall with the tree of ice and wallless bowl of fish. “This hall is the home to your trophies, and you have added to it well,” the King said, and his son swelled with pride. The King then said, “but you have much to learn.”

The King continued, “You must go to the Great Spark of the East. Return to me with a coat of all colors that burns cold fire. Gain her favor while you are there.”

The son rode out with a letter in his hand, sealed by the King’s personal Spark so that the son himself could not open it. The son rode for seven days, and came upon the cottage of the Great Spark of the East, at the side of a lake, and larger on the inside than it appeared from without. He hammered upon the door and said, “O Great Spark of the East! My father has sent me to retrieve a coat of all colors that burns cold fire! Give one to me, so that I may return to him!”

The doors opened, and the Great Spark of the East came out. She spoke distractedly, and said, “O Prince of the Kingdom. Your father is a wise man, but you are not. I will sew a coat of all colors that burns cold fire, but you must help me save my town first. Only then will I be able to sew the coat your father desires.”

The Great Spark of the East led the Prince to the center of the town that lay a mile down the road from her cottage. The Great Spark of the East spoke. “A great plague has struck my town, and I fear they have not time to live without my care. I will not sew your coat until my town has been saved. You will aid me to save it.”

“I require a coat!” The Prince insisted. “You are not having me collect ingredients, or power, or information! This does not relate to my task!”

“I have not the time to spare for you,” the Great Spark of the East said. “You must help me, or you shall return emptyhanded to your father.”

“So be it,” the Prince said, and rode home.

Except, not quite.

_“Oh!” Agatha exclaimed. “I thought he’d be going home all the way again!”_

_“Yes, that is usually how it works, is it not? The rule of three applies to mistakes, too,” Lilith said. “But it’s not, not really. This is a story about Sparks, darling, and they do work a little differently.”_

_“Okay,” Agatha said, and Lilith resumed her story._

Just an hour out from the town, he encountered the old man in cloth of faded gold.

“What? You again!” The Prince exclaimed.

The old man asked, “What ails you, my child?”

“I am not your child,” the King’s son said. “And my problems are still no business of yours. Why are you here?”

“I am old,” the man said. “I am wiser than most on account of my age. Perhaps I can help you once more.”

The Prince stayed quiet, but at length he spoke to the old man. “My father wishes for me to visit the Great Sparks of the Four Corners of the World, and gather impossible creations. The Great Spark of the East has asked me to aid in curing a plague that ails the town near her home, but I have not the time to waste on projects that do not relate to mine, and I fear that I will also fall ill if I breath the miasma of the ill. She said that she cannot build the coat of all colors that burns cold fire until I help her, and I must return home empty-handed.”

The old man spoke. “You are a prince, my child. You hope to be king. A king must be willing to care for his people and put their well-being ahead of his own, even when it strikes fear into his heart. Your father does not wish to put a king on his throne who is blind or deaf or uncaring to the troubles of his subjects, nor a king who allows his fears to rule him. Go to the Spark of the East, and apologize, and prove to your father that you are compassionate enough to be a king. These people do not have time for you to ride back to your home and hear your father’s disappointment from his own mouth.”

The son rode to the East, and arrived once more to the endless cottage of the Great Spark of the East. He knocked upon the door, and said “O Great Spark of the East! I have come to apologize for my behavior, and aid you in curing your town so that you may sew a coat of all colors that burns cold fire!”

The doors opened, and the Great Spark of the East came out. She spoke distracted, and said, “O Prince of the Kingdom. You have gained some wisdom. You will spend three days and three nights helping me brew and administer a potion to cure the people of my town so that I may sew a coat of all colors that burns cold fire for your father. Then you may return home.”

For three days and three nights, the Prince spent hours upon hours brewing the potion at the Spark’s side, and administering the potion to the people of the town. He worked tirelessly, and listened to their thanks and their mourning for those that had already passed. Upon the morning of the fourth day, the Great Spark of the East allowed him to sleep, and retired to her own quarters to sew the coat. Three days and three nights more, and she presented him with the coat of all colors that burned cold fire. Remembering his father’s request to curry favor, the Prince thanked the Great Spark of the East. The Great Spark of the East gave the Prince a letter, and the Prince rode home.

The King greeted his son as he returned home, and read the letter before he placed the cold flamed coat in the hall with the tree of ice, the wallless bowl of fish, and the moving picture book. “This hall is the home to your trophies, and you have added to it well,” the King said, and his son swelled with pride. The King then said, “but you have one last thing to learn.”

The King led the Prince to his study, and therein waited the old man in cloth of faded gold.

“What’s this?” The Prince asked. “Who is this man? He has aided me in understanding the lessons of the Great Sparks of the West, the South, and the East. You have known him?”

The king spoke. “This old man is the spirit of the country. A country is its people, and its government, and its land. The spirit of the kingdom helped you learn the lessons you needed to no longer be a weak, careless, and cruel Prince.”

“You had many lessons to learn,” the spirit of the kingdom said. “And you have learned them. You are ready to be a king.”

Seven years and a day later, upon the death of the king, the Prince was crowned.

Like his father before him, he was wise, and kind, and careful. And when it came time for his own son to be tested, the new king knew whom to trust most.

_“So,” Lilith said, closing the storybook and turning to Agatha. “What is the moral here?”_

_Agatha wrinkled her nose and thought. “To not give up? And to listen to people when they talk to you, even if you think it’s dumb? And be kind to people even if it, um, in-con-veen-ences you?”_

_“Inconveniences,” Lilith corrected, ever gentle. “Yes, very good. And another is that a country is more than just its ruler, but that a country is its people and its land as well.”_

_“Are spirits of kingdoms real?” Agatha asked, peaking at Lilith over the tops of her blankets._

_“Well, some people think so,” Lilith said. She shrugged her wide shoulders. “But it’s hard to prove, empirically.”_

_“Oh,” Agatha said, and she slept._

o.o.o.o.o

**Over in “Scandinavia and the World”:**

“Oh shit,” Denmark said, craning his head as he looked through Austria’s fancy new telescope. “I think another dimension just popped up like ours!”

“What are you talking about?” Sweden asked, looking over the top of his newspaper with an expression that was already edging towards exasperation.

“They’re doing the whole countries and places are people thing!” Denmark explained, trying to get a better look.

“Think they’re fun?” Norway asked.

“Uh…” Denmark took a closer look at a fancy woman with a massive hat. Something behind her exploded in a rainbow of colors, and she laughed, and turned to look _directly at him_ , and waved. Something big and probably screaming came barreling out of the fire and into the river next to her. She just kept waving.

“I don’t think they’re doing it our way,” Denmark said slowly. He pulled away from the telescope. “Also, I think I’m scared _and_ horny right now. Is that a bad thing? It seems like a bad thing. That chick just exploded a dragon.”

“Oooh, I want to go visit!” Iceland exclaimed.

“Let’s _not_ ,” Sweden suggested, even as Austria and Iceland started to look more excited. He cut them off before they went any further with the idea, “And if you try, I _will_ call King Europe!”

“Maybe he’ll give Austria funding!”

“No!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more. More normal than this, because this is very, uh... meta?


	2. Paris - Sturmhalten - Mechanicsburg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paris loves their people.
> 
> Sturmhalten hates her prince.
> 
> Mechanicsburg can't _wait_ to meet her Heterodyne.

They think Paris is a construct, and this suits Paris just fine.

There are people who say that the Master of Paris _is_ Paris, that his iron control over the city and extensive wiring meant he was as good as the city himself.

They are wrong.

Paris has a tendency to spend their days in Simon Voltaire’s tower, offering advice and information, and their nights on the town.

Paris is fashion.

Paris is tall and slim and dark, and bares skin that shows wiring and panels not unlike the Master’s own.

Paris has no gender, because Paris is a multitude.

Paris tilts their head coyly, looks over their shoulder, and greets their visitors from the underground kingdoms and the Library. Paris has parts, has links to other spirits-of-places that are not inherently _Paris_ , and they welcome these parts with open arms.

Paris does not know all, but they feel all, from the laughter of young Xersephnia, delighting in Colette’s company, to the idle scurrying of something far too much like spiders for comfort up their bone-laden catacombs.

(Paris can visit what is left of Van Rijn’s laboratories, deep in their heart.)

(There are others, there.)

(They play poker, sometimes.)

Paris adores their people, adores their culture, adores the spirits that visit, from the imposing to the drifters to the lost.

Paris is _everything_ , and Paris intends to continue on as they ever have.

And if Paris continuing means taking a closer look at Colette’s potential, well, isn’t that only normal?

o.o.o.o.o

Sturmhalten does not speak.

Sturmhalten looks as close to a muse as any city spirit could, is just _off_ enough that people write her off as a construct, or a particularly clever clank, or—

Or they ignore her.

Sturmhalten is not restrained physically, no, but almost every mind in her walls is enslaved by a wasp. The Geisterdamen tramp along her underbelly with their pale mounts, and there’s a throne that kills a girl and douses her spark every few months, and the young Prince is too frightened of his father to say anything, and the Princess is all but dead, and the elder Prince is _obsessed._

He does not listen to Sturmhalten any more than Andronicus did, in those final days, to her or the Muses or anyone else with a lick of sense. Sturmhalten was built as a fortress to block the advance of Clemetius Heterodyne, a dying gasp of the Storm King’s coalition, never meant to survive as long as she had. She’d grown, had solidified, but she was born a disliked-yet-revered tool of the Storm King, and so she took a form similar to those that had the same role in his eyes.

She looked a Muse, nearly.

(The Muses had been meant to last, and so they were metal.)

(Sturmhalten had been meant to die, and so she seemed of flesh.)

(She had not died, of course, but she’d kept that youthful pale, looking for all the world like a porcelain doll.)

She looked cute and young and _helpless_.

And compared to so many of the cities around her, she was.

Aaronev Wilhelm Sturmvoraus does not listen to Sturmhalten or the lone muse in his posssession.

He enslaves his people for a mistress lying in wait.

A country is its people, especially a country or a city as young as Sturmhalten. Two hundred years is _nothing_ , to the games of the Great Culture Spirits.

A country is its people.

A country is—

A country—

Sturmhalten’s people wear no chains, but are enslaved to the will of Lucrezia and her preistesses.

Sturmhalten wears no chains, but her people are enslaved, so she is, too.

Aaronev has long since stopped listening to her advice.

And so Sturmhalten has long since stopped speaking.

(To him, at least.)

(Anevka may be heartless, even before what Aaronev did to her, but Tarvek has… potential.)

(Her existence is a secret for the royal family, but the Geisterdamen know, and she _hates it.)_

(Hates _them_.)

(Hates _Aaronev._ )

o.o.o.o.o

Mechaniscburg is not a secret.

Oh, the tourists are unaware, of course. New families, visitors, the Questors from Castle Wulfenbach.

But Mechanicsburgers all know.

Her skin is a deeper brown than most Europans, and her hair is a wild mess of oil-slick curls that spill out from underneath a truly magnificent hat.

(Paris tries to beat her, sometimes, when it comes to hats. Paris is the only one with the guts to _try._ )

Her hair shines like blackened steel under an oil slick, dark and deep and with a shifting shimmer of colors that aren’t quite there. It bounces along behind her as she walks down the streets and interacts with her people. Her eyes are a shining, eerie blue that few alive remember as being the true nature of the Dyne, save for the jagers.

She wears outrageous dresses, not _obscene_ so much as _absurd_ , and they somehow always manage to match her hats.

(The hat is always important.)

Mechanicsburg is as curved as her Heterodynes, because a city is a people but a Mechanicsburg is its Heterodyne, and Mechanicsburg’s spirit takes inspiration from both. She has scars from her history, a medical casing on an arm that once burned and burned and burned, and a right hook that puts most cities to shame.

She sits back in Vanamonde’s café and laughs with Carson, dips down to Gkika’s to sidle up to Jagers and cackle over stories about the old days. She stops by shops and sings local folk songs with children, and every Mechanicsburger she meets knows exactly who and what she is.

And distantly, in the direction of an old friend who’d decided every button and pattern had to be beetles in the same way Mechanicsburg had covered herself in trilobites, there was a pulse.

There was an energy.

There was a Heterodyne.

And when Carson asked her, on late nights where she gave him advice on his town and his people, in his trust until there was once more a Heterodyne, if there really _would_ be a new Heterodyne…

She smiled.

“Mechanicsburg knows her own. There will _always_ be a Heterodyne, and the Heterodyne will _always_ find their way home.”

(She can’t wait for many reasons, but perhaps the most constant is that she quite misses having the Castle to speak with. They simply aren’t as capable of an interesting conversation when they’re fractured like this. Not even a single murder attempt! She really does need a Heterodyne home.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason I keep imagining Mechanicsburg as being a little darker is due to the fact that I imagine the high Rroma population in Romania reflecting on the presentation of the oldest of the cities there. Sturmhalten tends pale (it's a very Western European city, given the intention of its original creation, and has a lot of people of Slavic and French ancestry in particular, and also the not-quite-a-Muse thing), and Paris is a bit of everything, but canon suggests that there's a higher population of black people than in the real world, and I feel that Simon's long-term presence as Master of Paris has perhaps reflected on the city spirit's presentation the way the Heterodyne Ham has reflected on Mechanicsburg.
> 
> Conversely, I had to actively fight the fact that my brain kept trying to connect Mechanicsburg with Freddie from Disney's Descendants: Wicked World. It's the hat. It's the damn hat.


	3. Construct - Clank - Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Barony of Wulfenbach is old and cracked and more than a little scuffed.
> 
> Beetleburg is new and click-click-clicking along.
> 
> Castle Wulfenbach, the airship city itself, is... something else.

The original Castle Wulfenbach is in ruins. It has been for many, many years.

There is a ring of cities, maybe just _towns_ , in what would, in another universe, be Romania. Wulfenbach and Sturmhalten and Beetleburg and others, even, but Wulfenbach is the eldest of them. These cities and towns are meant to hem in Mechanicsburg, to be that final true wall between the monsters born of the Dyne and the rest of the world.

Wulfenbach was doing that long before Mechanicsburg turned over a new leaf, long before the Heterodyne Boys changed their family’s reputation, and young Agatha did the same.

Wulfenbach looks as old as he feels. Mechanicsburg may be spritely and only show her age in the knowing in her eyes, but Wulfenbach just looks… elderly.

He’s covered in stitches, visible on his hands and face even as his clothing covers the rest of him. His hands are calloused, and his face is lined, and his hair is a salt-and-pepper that leans very heavily into the ‘salt’ side. He’s been mistaken for a construct more than once, and given that the three sons of House Wulfenbach were sewn up into one, and Klaus himself is as much a construct as many of his employees, and a ruler and geography and population all reflect on a spirit’s presentation…people aren’t entirely wrong.

The suit he wears was a crisp day suit, once, not particularly classy or cheap, but sturdy and gradually shifting to always hold that middling position in the fashion hierarchy as time passed and styles changed.

It’s still a day suit, still sturdy, still not particularly classy or cheap, but it looks old-fashioned, now. It’s shabby, covered in patches and signs of wear.

It’s a lot like he is.

Wulfenbach’s streets are no longer littered in rubble, and there are children now, but there are still signs of damage. The butchers’ street still bears a scar the length of three blocks from a boulder that had come in at an angle and driven a gouge into the cobblestone. It’s been filled in, mostly, and the boulder is gone, but the new cobblestones are a different color; it’s easy to see where it’s been fixed. The seamstress’s guild still complains, occasionally, about how the waterwheels they’d once been able to use for spinning are forever still after the destruction of the dam. The cathedral is… well, there’s a church there, now. Smaller. Homelier.

The Baron sends home money for reconstruction, even now, but there’s no way to fix everything.

They can never go back to how things were.

So Wulfenbach sits on a park bench with his construct scars and scuffed-up day suit, and smokes a pipe.

Everything will be fixed eventually. It won’t be the same, but… well. They’ll trundle along just fine, he thinks.

o.o.o.o.o

Beetleburg is a hissing set of whispering gears and steaming pistons.

He is often grinning, though it’s hard to tell.

Beetleburg is a new town, just two generations old, but it’s big and bustling and full of students who want nothing more than to learn.

Beetleburg follows along behind Tarsus when he can, grins at people with no lips or skin or anything but clacking metal and grinding wires, body hidden behind a suit that can’t quite be tailored right.

Tarsus and his father were always fond of clanks, and Beetleburg jumped the gun, so to speak. He’s no Van Rijn, of course, but the past few centuries had just made it more and more obvious how _crucial_ clanks were and would be. And Beetleburg was a new town! Beetleburg was a _university_ town! Paris may have headed things in fashion, but if clanks were going to be advancing, Beetleburg wanted to be running the show.

He wasn’t the best, sure, but damn if he didn’t want to own a bandwagon or three.

o.o.o.o.o

Castle Wulfenbach is an airship.

It is a machine.

It is also a city.

It is also a _capital_ of a loosely-defined empire.

It is home to two spirits.

The Pax Transylvania is a young spirit, still growing into herself, still learning.

Castle Wulfenbach is… different.

There exists more than one kind of spirit, after all.

Cities and towns and countries, oh, the spirits are _solid_. They are clever and complicated and difficult and, ultimately, people quite their own.

Smaller towns are generic, often, able to pass for just another civilian.

Villages and smaller, especially in the Wastelands, do not have humanoid spirits. They cannot defend themselves easily, so their community forms into something hostile and defensive, suspicious of outsiders until they’ve proven themselves. The spirits of villages in the Wastelands are monsters more often than not, not quite human and not quite animal and often with something profoundly wrong about them that can, if the village is lucky, chase off a dead spark’s rogue clank, or a starving construct, or whatever the latest threat to their lives is.

Mobile communities, now… _those_ get interesting.

It’s most often seen in traveling circuses, merchant caravans, and airships that never quite put down roots anywhere, these days. Pirates tell the most stories about it, but they’re far from the only ones to see it happen.

It used to be something that only happened on ships. Real, wooden, seabound ships, strong craftsmanship that floated on the waves, unconnected to gas bags or any metal shell to take it below.

Klabautermann.

(Well, there were other terms in other places. This, however, is the term that serves Castle Wulfenbach the best.)

If a ship was considered a _home_ , somewhere to live and love indefinitely, adored by its residents and not simply a way to get from A to B, it would develop a spirit of its own. The spirits were less defined than that of the stationary cities, usually, tied to the ship itself and only occasionally coming out of hiding, characterized by ill-defined edges and a smile without eyes or nose, and a tendency to knock about while the crew was asleep, fixing the little breaks and holes that daily life had given it.

It spread, somehow. Mobile communities of all sorts started seeing Klabautermann, or at least rumoring to have seen them. They didn’t always tell the truth, of course, but the phenomenon was noted enough times that there were books about the subject. The books _also_ tended to doubt the validity of the Klabautermann, but then again, so did most books on the subjects of community spirits in general.

Most cities only ever introduced themselves to their leaders and their heirs. There were legends and fairy tales about them, but it wasn’t like most people _believed._

In any case.

Castle Wulfenbach.

Shiny, big, floating so high up in the sky that it never touched the ground, hanging from its great airbag and patrolling Europa, Castle Wulfenbach was a mobile community. It was also large enough to count as a city.

It was also the center of an empire without an emperor.

Castle Wulfenbach was _many_ things, and quite frankly, Klaus himself was surprised when he found out that there were only two spirits in evidence.

One was the Klabautermann, one with solid edges and a Wulfenbach pin on its collar, and a wide grin that didn’t shift as it sung childish songs and fixed things it saw going wrong. A Klabautermann with such a strong tie to the community that it was half city spirit itself.

The other was the Empire herself, Pax Transylvania, who had introduced Klaus to the Klabautermann in the first place.


	4. Generation Euphrosynia - Generation Bill - Generation Agatha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mechanicsburg through the centuries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ht'rok-din wasn't a prompt but I needed to fit this in anyway.

There was never a High Priestess of the Dyne Spring who did not listen to Mechanicsburg.

Mechanicsburg had been young, once. She’s been an unaging, quiet girl that drifted about the shrine to Mechanicsburg’s battle goddess, following the high priestesses and watching the people of the village.

And then came Ht’rok-din.

He was a conqueror.

He drank from the Dyne.

He did not die.

Mechanicsburg tilted her head, and smiled, and did not collapse to her knees as the priestess did.

Mechanicsburg looked at Ht’rok-din, and thought _Mine._

She was right.

o.o.o.o.o

Mechanicsburg visited the Shining Coalition.

“Call me Empire,” he said, smiling wide. “Tea?”

“I’d love some,” Mechanicsburg said, taking a seat across from him with a smile. The massive red feather in her hat swayed between them for a long moment, and then she swept it back.

Things were quiet, for a long moment, as they drank their tea. They didn’t need it. They liked it anyway.

“So. I hear you’ve got a little sister, of sorts,” Mecahnicsburg said. “Stormy something?”

“Sturmhalten,” Empire said, with a fond smile. “Andronicus doesn’t expect her to last, but she will. She’s solid, and—”

“Cute?” Mechanicsburg suggested, and then immediately took a sip of tea that did nothing to hide her smile in the face of Empire’s exasperation.

“I suppose you could say so,” Empire admitted. “She loves the Muses. I think they’re seeing her as a younger cousin or something. She resembles them quite a lot.”

“She’s going to last longer than you are.”

Silence.

Mechanicsburg waited.

She breathed, and watched, and waited.

Empire put his tea down between them. “Yes.”

“You know.”

“That my Storm King is making a terrible mistake? Yes,” Empire said. He smiled, wan, and shrugged. “He’ll not listen to me or the muses or anyone else. It’s too late for him to back out of the marriage.”

“That was never his only mistake,” Mechanicsburg said. She was quiet, mostly. “Just the latest and greatest.”

“He’s not going to let me go without a fight, but he’s not put enough effort into longevity,” Empire said. “I think he’s hoping to get an heir out of the marriage, and then build his plans around that.”

“A Heterodyne ruling Europa? They’ll riot,” Mechanicsburg laughed. It was not a happy laugh, but neither was it unkind. “No, you’ll be in pieces as soon as he’s gone. Sparks all over will rise up to prove themselves, and shatter the world just to do it.”

“You’ll miss me,” Empire pointed out. He tried to smile again. “I’ve been told I’m quite charming.”

“Most Empires are,” Mechanicsburg said. Her eyes drifted to the window, eyeing the distance, past the fires and battles and snow-covered forests. “I’ve certainly met enough of them.”

(Two hundred years later, Empire was not dead. He was dying, yes, but he’d been dying for over two hundred years. Caught between life and death, just like his king. An Empire that had long since collapsed, but that nobody wanted to let go.)

(At least Prende and Paris enjoyed poker.)

o.o.o.o.o

The Fleshyards burned.

Mechanicsburg sat in a crenel atop the Castle, legs hanging over the edge of the battlements, and watched as her lovely biological quarter burned, angry red scars spreading up her arm to show it. She’d been on fire before, of _course_ , but not like this. This was her own Heterodyne trying to change her.

It didn’t hurt, though.

She was… not angry. She felt like she should be, because so many of her people were, but she wasn’t. She could feel what her Heterodynes wanted, and it wasn’t _bad_ , just _new_.

Castle Heterodyne wasn’t happy, but nothing the boys ever did really worked for it.

“Mistress Mechanicsburg?”

The voice was young. Quavering. Nervous.

“Barry! Come sit down,” she said, patting the space next to her. There was enough room for two. “How do you like my new hat?”

He sat down softly, carefully, and looked at her hat. She kept watching the Fleshyards.

“It’s… very shiny?” He offered.

“It is indeed!” She crossed her ankles. “Did you want to talk about something?”

“Um… kind of,” he said.

He was fourteen. Still young. Still… malleable.

Oh, but she didn’t _want_ to mold this one, _or_ his brother. She was very, very old, but she’d seen so very, very few Heterodynes be as interesting as these two.

Plenty of her Heterodynes had been aggressive.

None had taken so strongly after a Good mother, though.

She knew why they burned the Fleshyards.

“You’re hurt,” Barry said, at length. “The burning, it’s hurting you.”

“It is,” Mechanicsburg said. “But I do not feel pain at this.”

“You don’t?” Oh, there was _hope_ in that voice. He didn’t want to wish pain on anyone, even the city spirit he was burning.

“No, and I know what you’re planning,” Mechanicsburg said. She uncrossed her legs, and crossed them again. She leaned back, resting her weight on her hands, and closed her eyes. She tipped her head back, facing the sun and smelling the smoke on the air. “A hospital, yes?”

“Well, yeah. Bill’s got a lot of plans. He’s been fugueing over them.”

“You cleared the Fleshyards before you burned them.”

“Well, yeah.”

“You won’t be raiding.”

“Er, no. Definitely not.”

She opened her eyes and turned to look at him, considering. “A lot of the city’s income is based in the raiding. There were a lot of jobs in the Fleshyards. Your brother is Lord Heterodyne. There is an… obligation, here. Do you know how you’re planning to make sure your people continue to thrive?”

“Well, the Fleshyards people can probably learn just a few new things and then work at the hospital,” Barry said. “And the rest… well, we’ve got really good production, when it comes to parts. A lot of people would be willing to buy from us now that Dad’s dead, because it’s high-quality and less likely to be booby-trapped. And we’ve got a few things nearby that we can export, and I was thinking we could lean into the creepy stuff without hurting people and turn that into tourism. People really like being scared if they can believe that they won’t actually be hurt by the end.”

Mechanicsburg tilted her head, curls rolling and shifting across her back in response. “That relies quite a lot on people trusting Mechanicsburg.”

Barry looked her in the eye, held his chin high, and said, “We’re going to fix the town’s reputation. We’re going to make it so people _can_ trust us.”

“Oh? And how are you going to do that?”

“We’re going to be heroes.”

“…heroes, ey?” Mechanicsburg laughed, wild and free, head thrown back and cackles streaming up towards the sun. “Ho yez, hy ken’t _vait_ to see dot.”

Barry blinked at her. He leaned away a little. “You don’t… usually do that.”

“Vot? Play up ze ak-sent?” Mechanicsburg grinned at him, knowing that her mouth was jager-wide and filled with teeth just this edge of human, just sharp enough to people think there _might_ be a jager in her family tree; she’d come to resemble quite enough of them, as more and more had survived the draught. She let it drop, though, smiled something softer. “It’s fun to be truly myself, to be the extremes that are the jagers, when someone does something to surprise me. The Castle may not like it, young Master, but you and your brother… oh, you are _new!_ You are _refreshing!_ I’ve no idea how it’ll all play out, but I can’t _wait_ to see.”

“…okay, Mistress Mechanicsburg.”

By the time the Great Hospital was finished, Mechanicsburg had glossy white metal shell covering her burned arm, with a number of pretty dials and tubes, clearly medical in nature. An armored glove in sterile colors.

It didn’t actually _do_ anything, but it was a symbol.

What the boys hurt, they came back to fix, and sometimes made it better.

Mechanicsburg took to wearing one-armed dresses after that. With such a beautiful symbol of her latest Heterodyne, how could she _not_ show it off?

o.o.o.o.o

Mechanicsburg spun in her streets, overskirt flaring around her as she danced. The nearest three children all squealed and tried to copy her.

One of them fell over. After a quick glance to make sure they weren’t too badly injured, Mechanicsburg kept dancing.

And then she stopped.

Distantly, just at her very borders, something was coming alive.

The most distant of the Castle’s systems were a little active, still, mostly undamaged, somewhat independently functional.

And a head was turning.

Mechanicsburg focused, and—

Oh.

Oh, that was a _glow_.

It was a little… a _spark_ of diffuse Dyne light, drifting ever closer.

She put a finger to her lips and curtsied to the children, and then set off at a sprint.

Her Heterodyne was coming closer, was already inside the walls, the Castle had even _noticed_ enough to turn and watch, and—

Pink.

A girl in pink.

A girl in pink, giving a speech.

A girl in pink, giving a speech, with a massive pink airship hanging in the air above her.

A girl in pink, giving a speech, with a massive pink airship hanging in the air above her, _claiming to be her Heterodyne._

Mechanicsburg even _liked_ pink, sometimes, but this was too much and she was _claiming to be the Heterodyne_.

This was fine.

Mechanicsburg crossed her arms, stepped back, and watched.

The tourists ignored the woman in the overcoat, eyes fixated on the fake Heterodyne, but the locals were poking each other, pointing her out, whispering.

“Mistress?” a young man asked, a worried pinch between his brows. “You seem angry.”

“She’s a fake,” Mechanicsburg said. It would have come out eventually, and the Castle would take care of the girl, so she changed nothing by saying it. “I don’t like her.”

“There have been fakes before, Mistress,” the young man said. “Er, you’re not… I mean, I haven’t seen you, but they say you usually don’t get this… angry.”

“There _is_ a real Heterodyne,” Mechanicsburg said. Her foot tapped against the cobblestone. She was _hampered_ by the fact that she had to step back and wait. This was too big for her to deal with without direct permission from her Heterodyne, or at _least_ from the Seneschal.

She waited. She drifted along at the backs of the crowds, stern and disapproving and still with her arms crossed, and her people paid attention.

The tourists loved a good show.

The locals _hated_ a fake.

And if Mechanicsburg said that a Heterodyne was a fake, then her people listened.

Little Miss Pinkie probably felt the tension, all the ugly looks that the Mechanicsburgers were sending her way. _Good_. She deserved the disapproval.

Mechanicsburg waited until the fake had made her way into the Castle, far too confident for comfort, and then turned to where the Dyne energy stemmed from. She linked her hands behind herself and walked carefully behind the odd group, escorted by old Carson himself.

An Englishman. A woman with green hair and a pair of swords. A talking cat. Carson.

And.

_And._

_And…_

Mechanicsburg focused on the energy, focused on the tie from her soul to her Heterodyne’s, ignored the faint drifting spark of Barry, thousands of miles away, ignored the subtle glow of the jagerkin, until she was absolutely sure.

Mechanicsburg waited until Carson had tested the young woman, and then walked up to them. The tourists still ignored her. The locals simply stared.

Mechanicsburg smiled at Carson as she walked up, enjoyed the widening of his eyes at her involvement, and tapped the young woman in the green dress on the shoulder. Her companions startled, but it didn’t matter.

“Oh,” her Heterodyne said. “I’m sorry, hi. Did you need something?”

Mechanicsburg took her Heterodyne’s hands in her own, leaned in close, and said the words she’d waited nearly twenty years to say.

“Welcome home, my lady. We’ve been waiting ever so long to meet you.”

She had a Heterodyne.

_Her Heterodyne was home._


	5. Jägerdraught - Poison - Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To new friends, fake friends, and old friends all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beograd = the Serbian name for Belgrade

The Jägerdraught uses Dyne water, and the Dyne has been at Mechancisburg’s heart since her inception.

She can find her Heterodynes because their bones, their blood, their very _souls_ are infused with the power of the Dyne.

She can find her Jägerkin in much the same way.

When soldiers choose to undergo the ceremony to become Jägerkin, there are very few people allowed in. Some existing Jägerkin, often at least one general, and the Heterodyne are always necessary. Sometimes, the Heterodyne will bring along a sibling or child, so they can see what they too will one day need to do. A few minions, as well, tend to be useful.

Mechanicsburg is always there.

She stands behind her Heterodyne, watches each and every potential Jäger drink the brau. She stands vigil as they writhe, day and night, for days. She does not leave the room, does not leave their sides, and does not change the outcome.

She is silent throughout.

Those who survive will spend centuries at her side, a Heterodyne’s to the end. They will laugh together over old stories and steins of beer hundreds of years from now. She will tease them about things they did in their youth, things they’ve near forgotten by then.

Those who do not survive will be buried in their hats. The second they chose to drink the brau, they were considered Jägerkin. Whether they survived or not, they chose to make the pledge and drink the brau.

They are the Heterodyne’s.

They are the Dyne’s.

They are Mechanicsburg’s.

They are Jägerkin.

o.o.o.o.o

Once, the Geisterdamen had a goddess.

Once, that goddess was real, an immortal queen that cared for her pale subjects.

Once, the goddess died.

When Lucrezia came, she claimed to _be_ the goddess, in a new aspect they’d never seen before.

The city had a name unpronounceable by human tongue, and so Lucrezia had called her Geister.

A ghost. She felt like a ghost, some days.

Her ladies had believed Lucrezia, though not without reservations, and Geister herself had been outright hostile. This was not her goddess. Her goddess was dead. Lucrezia was—

And then there were machines, closing around her head, electricity and gears and oh _Lucrezia. Lady Lucrezia._

_Goddess._

It is difficult, to harm a city spirit directly. Damaging the city itself may lead to the spirit reflecting the damage, but directly hurting a city spirit is much more difficult.

Brainwashing and mind control? Impossible… unless one happens to be Lucrezia Mongfish.

It was temporary. It was hard. It only lasted a year but Lucrezia made the most of her time there. For one year, Geister was utterly, completely convinced that Lucrezia was her goddess.

For one year, Lucrezia worked to convince the geisterdamen that she was their queen. She used her Spark, her Wasps, and good old-fashioned persuasion, and by the end of it, almost every woman in the city believed that Lucrezia was the Goddess, and the few who didn’t had fled.

And when every soul in the city believed and adored and obeyed Lucrezia, so did Geister herself.

The brainwashing didn’t matter. The mind control was unnecessary. The people believed that Lucrezia was the Goddess, so Geister did too.

(Deep down, she screamed at herself that Lucrezia was a fake, that she was nothing but poison to their minds and way of life.)

(Deeper down, she didn’t care. She wanted to believe. Even when she’d still been suspicious, she’d wanted to believe.)

(Her Goddess was dead. What did it matter if the new one was human and a liar? She was still here. _Lucrezia_ hadn’t left a city full of distraught geisterdamen mourning her passing. _Lucrezia_ left backups.)

(Her Goddess was dead and Lucrezia was better than nothing. Geister wanted to believe, so when her people were taken, Geister let herself get swept away with them.)

o.o.o.o.o

There's an old woman where the Sava and Danube meet.

There are little villages around her, clusters and keeps and a shattered castle or two.

The keep rebuilding her.

She regains her youth every time.

Scars and a missing hand and an eye that's been blinded.

But she holds her chin high and readies herself for the next attack.

They will return.

They always do.

She will be ready.

So will all the monstrous personifications she's spent the past centuries bringing to her side, the ones that roam the wilds and hunt for the ones who destroyed their people, or who are hunting for a way to protect the ones still there.

This city has fallen so many times.

Just as many times, it's been rebuilt.

(She's so very covered in burns...)

She takes to spending her "old and broken" years sitting on the fortress at Kalemegdan Park.

(Well.)

(When there is a fortress.)

Sometimes she just sits and waits for the next round to begin.

And Mechanicsburg? Well, Mechanicsburg likes anyone with that much spirit and determination.

Mechanicsburg is older than Pax or Paris or Empire, but there are a few peers.

Mechanicsburg remembers being just a small village on a cursed spring.

Mechanicsburg remembers when Albia was insurmountable and the city to the west was raging again.

When Rome still stood.

Mechanicsburg is so young and vital and her eyes are so terribly old it makes you uncomfortable to hold her gaze for a long period of time.

Mechanicsburg remembers so much. That far back her memories get a bit misty. She was young then, but she hasn't forgotten.

(One day, Agatha will ask, "Do cities have friends? Beetleburg was... she said she was young, but she always looked older than Beetle, and she didn't like it when the Pax Transylvania visited.")

(And Mechanicsburg will smile, with all her teeth, and say, "Sometimes. Sometimes we call each other a friend one century and an enemy the next. Sometimes they come so close to dying, but...")

("But?")

("Let's take a trip. Bring the Jagerkin. We've got a friend to help with repairs, I think.")

(But that comes later.)

o.o.o.o.o

“Coffee?” The elderly spirit asked.

Mechanicsburg shook her head. “No, thank you. My new seneschal is very fond of coffee; I’ve had quite enough indulging his flights of fancy.”

Beograd laughed. “Tea, then?”

“Tea.”

Mechanicsburg stayed seated, waiting until the server had taken their order and gone again.

Her eyes drifted up to the Kalemegdan, where Beograd normally sat to watch over her people.

“How bad was the damage this time?” Mechanicsburg asked.

Beograd looked at the backs of her hands, flexing them until the tendons stood out through the thin and wrinkled skin. “I’ve got liver spots, but only barely. We’ll be fine.”

Mechanicsburg nodded. She couldn’t feel the damage here the way she could in her own town, but she had eyes. She could see. There were gouges in the ground and blast rings from bombs and levelled buildings and a few burnt-out churches.

There was also distant strains of violin music with the accompaniment of an overenthusiastic accordion. There was the laughter of children. There was a bustling marketplace under a small army of tents, blocks away. The kafići were open and serving the usual fare.

“Ottoman again?” Mechanicsburg asked.

“No, a rogue spark,” Beograd said. She tapped her cane against the floor, considering. “New one, I think. Plenty of damage to the buildings and infrastructure, but the people are alright for the most part.”

“Already rebuilding.”

“As always,” Beograd said. She flexed her hand again, biting her lip. “I’ll be back in my prime soon enough. Young and beautiful and ready for the next fight.”

“How long?”

“Five years, give or take,” Beograd said. She looked up, eyes sparkling, and met Mechanicsburg’s glow. “I don’t suppose you’d like to try a raid and test my defenses, then? A friendly fight for old time’s sake?”

“Once I have a Heterodyne again, I’ll come visit.”

“I hope you only bring your best and brightest.”

“Sure it won’t break those old bones?”

“Against a young upstart like yourself?” Beograd asked, grin spreading across her face. “I’ll get back up again, same as I always do.”

“Almost seven thousand years here, and you’re still bouncing back,” Mechanicsburg said.

“Well, I’m not about to just roll over and _die_ , my dear.”

o.o.o.o.o

Most often, Beograd is the kind of skinny, withered old woman who sits on a porch chair and holds a cane in front of her, watching the horizon.

_"There's a storm coming."_

The people of the Wastelands tend to assume that she's a witch of some sort.

Not a spark, not a construct, not a clank.

A witch.

She doesn’t feel normal. There is something otherworldly about her, and they can tell.

She’s been there forever, and the eldest of the locals know that there is _something_ going on, perhaps even _what._

Visitors don’t get to know.

The more shattered her streets are, the older she looks. As they repair her, she regains her youth, her strength, her vitality.

They’ve burned her down dozens of times.

It never sticks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Why is Belgrade here?" Because I was born there and my family is Serbian and it means a lot to me if I can work it into fics like this.
> 
> Also a handful of lines from the Belgrade intro section were adapted from things that a friend on the GG discord (gelpens) said while we were first brainstorming the AU.


	6. Wulfenbach - Valois - Heterodyne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Children and the cities that should have, could have, would have raised them.
> 
> Also: time to meet Pax.

It’s tradition, in more places than not, for the heir to the throne to be raised by their country’s, province’s, or city’s spirit. The locus is the people, the government, the culture itself. The locus is the perfect nanny.

It’s _tradition_.

But it is not universal.

And some people think nothing of breaking tradition.

o.o.o.o.o

Teodora did not trust Mechanicsburg. She did not trust the people, the Castle, or the city’s spirit itself.

Teodora did not trust _anyone_ to be a good influence, to the point where she ended up raising them in a separate house entirely.

Mechanicsburg wanted to hold the boys. She wanted to carry Bill and Barry around, wanted to coo at them and teach them how to read and write and properly identify all the parts to a corpse, how to do any number of wonderful things that they’d need as Heterodynes.

But Teodora disapproved, and Saturnus backed her up, and so Mechanicsburg didn’t get to help raise the boys.

“She’ll barely let me even _talk_ to them,” Castle complained to her, once.

“I know.”

“Have you gotten to hold them yet?”

“No.”

“That’s obscene! A city should—”

“Stop.”

(When Klaus Barry was born, Mechanicsburg’s role was replaced entirely with a construct given the soul of a muse.)

(Mechanicsburg felt jealousy, but mostly, she felt pity.)

(She remembered the Otilia of before.)

(She tried to tell Bill, _honest,_ but the words just… wouldn’t come out.)

(Damn Lucrezia. Damn all of her.)

o.o.o.o.o

Anevka and Tarvek had many nannies, growing up. There was always more than one, and many of them died in the course of their work, because working in a Spark’s castle, even one as careful as Aaronev, was dangerous.

But the constant element was Sturmhalten.

They didn’t know, as children, what she was. They’d simply known that a young woman who moved a little too much like a clank was always nearby. She sometimes followed their father around like a shadow, silent and emotionless, and sometimes she stayed with them. She seemed happier, when she stayed with them, coaching Anevka through how to play the harp or Tarvek through how to use a thimble to keep his thumb safe while sewing.

When Tarvek got kicked off of Castle Wulfenbach, his father was furious. His sister was pitying, but not enough to comfort him. Sturmhalten, though, slipped into his room in the quiet of the night, and sat on his bed and let him cling to her. She let him cry. She soothed him in her near-gone voice and rubbed his back with hands that were cool as fine china, and let him choke out the entire twisted story.

She let him be a child.

She was there when nobody else was.

When Anevka nearly died at the hands of her father, Sturmhalten wept. She held Anevka’s hand as Tarvek worked feverishly through endless nights to save her. She sang old lullabies in a whisper-thin soprano, songs that Anevka hadn’t deigned to listen to since she was six. She told fairy tales and made sure Tarvek occasionally slept and kept the Geisterdamen and their twisted hearts away.

Sturmhalten cared for the children of her crown, even when that very crown was the one to harm them.

Sturmhalten sat, for days and weeks and months and _years_ , with Tinka, her oldest friend here and now broken beyond repair. She let Tinka glitch her way through sentences, confused and lost and asking for her sisters, and held Tinka close when she remembered enough of herself to wish she was broken enough to forget the pain.

Sturmhalten knew when Anevka died, even when Anevka herself didn’t.

Sturmhalten mourned, and lost her voice once and for all.

Sturmhalten followed around Tarvek, her final hope in freeing herself and her people, with Anevka dead and Aaronev beyond reason.

Sturmhalten broke, piece by piece by piece, as Aaronev died and Anevka’s clank-ghost was deactivated and Tarvek so very injured by Vrin that he had to be taken to the Great Hospital in Mechanicsburg.

Sturmhalten’s people were in chaos, and the Geisterdamen were loose, and Lucrezia was out there.

(She was _never_ going to be free.)

She waited.

She hoped.

Tarvek was still _alive_ , at least, and some of the early reports mentioned that he’d broken out of the Hospital.

She took Tinka’s head from where she found it, and sat with Moxana. Tinka was so very broken, and Sturmhalten could no longer speak, and Moxana had never been able to speak in the first place, so communication was difficult, but there was a comfort in their stillness together.

Sturmhalten could do nothing for her people but wait.

She waited.

She hoped.

Mechanicsburg was trapped in a time bubble.

Tarvek was trapped inside it.

No Aaronev.

No Tarvek.

No Anev—

Sturmhalten’s breath trembled in her lungs.

Anevka.

Not Anevka, but—

Close?

Anevka had the voice, or at least her clank did. She could command revenants. She could free Sturmhalten and her people.

She… she probably _wouldn’t_ , not really. Anevka was crafty and clever and so very desperate to control other people so they wouldn’t control her, so she’d never be broken by someone like her father again.

But being beholden to one’s ruler was different from being beholden to the whims of a dead woman.

_Ding._

Sturmhalten turned, and saw Moxana watching her. The muse held up a card.

The mirror.

_One and the same, then._

Anevka and Lucrezia?

No, no, they were different, they—

Oh.

Anevka also counted as a dead woman, just as Lucrezia did.

“We-we-we-we-we-we-we c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-can see/ee/ee/ee/ee _your̗̮̗̤̮̖̅ͣr͔͈͖̎̔̐̚r̗̐̎́r̤͊ͦ̓́͛́ŗ͈͓̗̗̻͔̎̍̀ͅr̛͉̙̩̟̟̜̹ȑ̻̳͚̘̭r͒͘ṛ̴̘̱̬ͮͯ͋̉_ thoughtssssssssssss,” Tinka managed.

Sturmhalten blinked at her.

She’d never thought her own face very expressive, but muses were muses for a reason.

No matter.

Sturmhalten was chained to the whims of Lucrezia.

Sturmhalten was still under the rule of the baron.

Sturmhalten was traditionally obligated to care for a future potential ruler.

Moxana rearranged her board, and brought out the chess pieces.

A queen, far off in one corner, with a knight and a rook beside her. A smattering of pawns were added.

In the middle of the board, a knocked-over bishop, a king, and two pawns, one of which was cracked down the center.

Well, that was rather obvious.

Moxana swept the queen and the knight off of her board, along with half of the pawns. She stood up the bishop, and then moved the rook to a position where it needed only one move to take out the bishop.

Sturmhalten checked the colors. White queen, and knight, and rook, and pawns.

Black bishop and pawns.

White moved first.

Baron Gilgamesh Wulfenbach would have the option of moving first to destroy Anevka if she was involved.

_Ding._

The Whirlwind.

She’d shown this same card to Tarvek. Sturmhalten remembered that.

Carefully, slowly, deliberately, Moxana placed the card on the chess board, and then placed the queen on top of it, lengthwise, the base facing the rook.

She met Sturmhalten’s outwardly emotionless stare.

Sturmhalten, in turn, closed her eyes.

Anevka had Lucrezia’s voice.

The wasps made Sturmhalten’s people obedient to Lucrezia, yes, but also to anyone else who had the voice.

Sturmhalten was, metaphysically, enslaved to Lucrezia despite not being something that was capable of being wasped.

But if Anevka had the voice, and Sturmhalten could guess what Anevka wanted, then…

She could wreak havoc.

But Sturmhalten needed a leader, and the chaos caused by Mechanicsburg meant that the new Baron hadn’t had _time_ to get involved yet.

The Family was still squabbling.

Was the risk Anevka posed greater than the ways she’d help if let free?

_Ding!_

Moxana placed a pawn in front of the rook.

She pushed it to the base of the queen.

A questor, perhaps?

And probably soon…

She didn’t need to activate it.

The head could lie dormant, and then the new Baron would arrive with Pax once the Questor alerted him, and they could figure it out from there.

Sturmhalten got to her feet, placed Tinka on Moxana’s board, and got around to Moxana’s back to push her.

For the first time in years, Sturmhalten found her voice.

“Our Sleeping Beauty isn’t waiting for a prince, just for a kingdom.”

Tinka laughed.

o.o.o.o.o

Pax Transylvania was not a nanny.

Pax was _nannied._

In the early days of the Empire, Klaus had simply thought of himself as going around and bludgeoning other rulers into having peace.

He had not, in fact, thought of it as an empire until a handful of the places he’d forced into peace asked him about help with repairs.

At that point, he’d realized that he needed to help organize those repairs, and how to finance them, and that the money needed to come from _somewhere_ other than his own pockets, since he was just one man with a baby and a destroyed barony. He could finance the repairs for Wulfenbach, but not for every place he took over.

This meant taxes.

And taxes meant paperwork.

And paperwork meant employees.

And employees meant an organization.

And an organization engaged in taxes and infrastructure was a government, and a body of government needed a _name_ for what it governed.

He didn’t want a government, or politics, or anything, just peace. He just wanted safety for his son.

If he couldn’t have that, well…

 _Pax Transylvania_.

The peace of Transyvlania.

It grew beyond those borders, and quickly, and some people started calling it the Pax Wulfenbachia, or just the Wulfenbach Empire, but Klaus kept the name. Pax Transylvania was what he’d named it, and that was the name that ended up on all the paperwork, and that was the idea he wanted to impart. He was in charge, but it wasn’t about _him_ , it was about the peace.

He just didn’t want anyone to cause trouble.

He even made it very clear, later on, by surrounding the empire’s crest with “Don’t make me come over there,” which he felt summarized his attitude quite nicely.

He signed off a set of charters to the first few places he’d conquered, and sent them off with couriers, and sat back at his desk, trying to figure out where he went from here.

He closed his eyes, trying to block out the light that streamed through the windows of the office on this tiny airship. He needed to get a bigger one, probably _more_ than one…

“Hello?”

It took a fraction of a second for Klaus to realize that the door hadn’t opened since he’d sent the couriers off.

His eyes snapped open and he leapt to his feet, already reaching for the death ray strapped to his belt.

What he saw was not what he expected, to the point where his heart clenched.

“Who are you?” He asked, and cursed internally a the break in his voice.

The little girl in the middle of his floor blinked at him. She was young, _very_ young, maybe all of four years old. Her hair was the same green as Zantabraxus’s, and the look in her eyes was far too intelligent for someone that young.

A trick. A hallucinogen. A—one of Lucrezia’s tricks, maybe?

“I’m Pax Transylvania.”

Or not.

Klaus unclenched his white-knuckled fingers from the death ray.

“You look like…” he paused. “You look like my wife.”

Pax frowned, and then shrugged. “Maybe it’s because you made me. Do you have a daughter?”

“You don’t know?”

“I’m three minutes old, Herr Baron.”

Klaus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He’d met several community spirits in his time, but they’d all been years old, at minimum. The two he’d truly spent time with had been centuries old, and Mechancisburg had been evasive on the subject, but he was fairly certain she was well over a millennium.

Pax Transylvania had existed for all of three minutes. Maybe four, now.

“I do,” he said, after about thirty seconds. “I suppose you might resemble her. She’d be nearly a year old by now.”

Pax nodded, and sat down on the floor, legs splayed out in front of her. Her dress was a simple blue shift, and she was otherwise bare.

Was the room warm enough for a child in such minimal clothing?

“Does this mean you think of yourself as the dad of your entire empire?”

…she certainly asked the kinds of questions a child did.

“I do not.”

“But I look like I could be your daughter, if people knew what your wife looked like. So I’m kind of _your_ daughter, because you made the empire, and I’m the empire, so you made me. So you’re the dad of your empire.”

Klaus buried his face in his hands.

“Are you okay, Herr Baron?”

“No,” he said, voice muffled. “I am not.”

 There was a shuffling noise, getting closer and closer, and then a tugging at his pantleg. He pulled his face out of his hands, and looked down at the currently-harmless spirit.

She stared up at him with silvery eyes. “Do you need a hug?”

He had a literal child for an empire.

The Pax Transylvania was the youngest political entity on the continent. It was being forced into existence, rather than growing organically. The Pax Transylvania was being pushed unprepared onto the stage of Europa’s politics, and it… showed.

It really showed.

Wordlessly, and with a feeling that his face was showing even less emotion than usual, Klaus picked up Pax Transylvania and put her on his lap, letting her wrap her arms around his neck and bury her face into his chest. He heard her giggle, and patted her woodenly on the back, his hands absolutely dwarfing her thin torso.

“How old are you?”

“Ten minutes!”

“I meant physically. Or mentally. Not chronologically. If you were a human, your body would be that of a four-year-old, yes?”

Pax Transylvania shrugged. “I think so? Hey, where’s your daughter?”

“Far away.”

Pax Transylvania pulled away and frowned at him. “But you’re doing this for a baby.”

Klaus stiffened, feeling an immediate urge to lie, but—

She was a spirit.

He was her ruler.

She could _feel_ the truth.

“I brought my son,” he said, his voice quiet. “I mean to make Europa safe for him to grow up in.”

Pax Transylvania nodded. “That’s why I’m named Pax.”

“Yes.”

She thought about that, and then squirmed around in his lap until she was facing the desk. “Hey, what’s this?”

“An inkwell. Don’t touch it.”

“What about this?”

“A translation dictionary for Italian. Your fingers are inky, don’t—”

“What about this?”

“The first draft of a threatening letter to a spark that’s been wreaking havoc on the near side of the Danube. Don’t touch—”

“What about this?”

 _“Don’t touch anything_ ,” Klaus ground out, reaching out to take her hands and push them down into her lap, well away from any sensitive documents she could damage with curious fingers that had already dipped into the inkwell.

She tipped her head back to stare at him. “Why?”

Klaus closed his eyes and took another deep breath.

He’d already planned on starting a school, maybe taking political hostages. Von Pinn seemed more stable with Gilgamesh to look after, and Klaus had a feeling that she’d be happier with more children to take care of.

He stood up abruptly, Pax Transylvania dangling from his hands. She let out a tiny squeak at the movement.

“You can pretend to be a human child?” Klaus asked, maneuvering her to sit on his shoulders. She grabbed onto his hair, yanking sharply. Great. Now there was ink in his hair.

Well, children did tend to have sticky fingers…

“I think so!”

Klaus headed for the door. “Your name will be Pax. You’ll tell people that I picked you up from a village that was mostly destroyed by a rogue spark, and that you named yourself because you got amnesia from the damage that was dealt. You’ll grow up with the other human students in the school that I’m setting up. Agreed?”

“You’re bossy,” Pax said. She kicked her tiny heels against his chest. “But okay. Does this mean I get to see your son? Oh! I bet he’s cute. Does he have green hair? Can I pinch his cheeks?”

“Remember to pretend your human,” Klaus said. He reached for the door, and paused. “You’re _sure_ you can do this?”

“Do people usually have green hair here?” Pax asked. “Will they think I’m a construct?”

“Tell them it’s genetic.”

“Can I hug your baby?”

“Pax, please focus. I’m going to tell Mistress Von Pinn what you are, but _nobody else_ can know. Do you understand?”

“I’m a spirit. Only the ruler gets to know what I am by default,” Pax said. She patted his head. “Don’t worry. I can pretend I’m human. Can I get a pretty dress? A really floofy one?”

Klaus sighed, and opened the door, immediately turning for the makeshift nursery that played bedroom to both Von Pinn and Gilgamesh. “I’ll see what I can do.”


	7. Cheesecake - Beefcake - Literal Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A city of glass.
> 
> A nation enamored.
> 
> A half-dead empire.
> 
> There are stories, about them and theirs. Care to hear one?

A person made of glass met Agatha soon after she exited the airship from Paris, eagerly shaking her hand as Agatha attempted to adjust from the conversation with Lord Moonbark.

“Hello! I’m Lonnie Nimble, pleased to meet you!”

“Agatha Heterodyne,” Agatha said, a little thrown. “Um, we were… on our way down to Londinium? We’re kind of—”

“Oh, no, by all means!” Lonnie said, stepping back and smiling as Agatha gave them an uncertain smile of her own and tried to get back to the subject at hand. They followed behind her group, falling into step with Lord Moonbark even as the conversation continued to whirl around her, and smiled whenever Agatha caught their eye.

“Mister Nimble,” Wooster said, nodding to the person in question. He muttered to Agatha, as an aside, “He’s a favored construct of her Majesty’s.”

Lonnie smiled at Agatha again, tilting their head in a way that had the light shining through and across the room and floor in an awe-inspiring, dazzling array of color.

“Well,” Agatha said, following Wooster towards what seemed to be a customs official. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mister Nimble.”

Lonnie laughed. “And you! Perhaps later, you and I might get some cake! I _do_ hear you enjoy it.”

And if Agatha gave them a rather _unsure_ grin, well… it was to be expected. Lonnie didn’t exactly look like a _standard_ construct, after all.

o.o.o.o.o

Londinium is known as The Glass City. It wasn’t always known as such, but the past three hundred years of a slow descent beneath the waves have wrought a change on the metropolis. Each and every inhabitable part of the city is below a barrier of reinforced glass, often a beautiful kaleidoscope of stained patterns and gorgeous colors.

London used to be very different. London used to wear a dirt-stained tunic, and had pale skin and freckles and brown hair and an impish grin and green, green eyes like the forests and plains that rolled across the island and up to the edges of the town. London had run barefoot through the streets and haggled with the merchants and spun with arms outstretched in the sun when it chose to shine, and in the rain when it came home, and in the snow when it was cold enough to have the fair on the river.

But then the great catastrophe had come, and England had needed to adapt. Domes were built, and submarines were now the norm, and new sources of prosperity were found. The people of London adapted.

And so London became Londinium.

 _The Glass City_. Unbreakable, unshakeable, absolutely gorgeous and able to withstand anything thrown at them. Able to bend when necessary and stand firm when needed. Absolutely glowing in the deep, dark depths of what was once London, greatest of the northern cities.

(There were cities who would have disputed this. Londinium did not care.)

Londinium is walking glass. Londinium moves as though organic, but a touch to the skin reveals the smooth coolness of a windowpane, a beaker, a wineglass. Londinium has switched from tunics to nice suits and lovely dresses, whatever suits the day, _classy_ , because that’s the reputation that Londinium  has these days.

They’re not the exuberant excess of Paris, or the deep and troubling inhumanity of the abandoned Wastelands spirits, or the half-broken youth of Pax and Sturmhalten.

They are old, and they are beautiful, and they are glass in human form.

They are Londinium.

o.o.o.o.o

England has a shepherd’s crook for Wales. She has an omnipresent blue ribbon at the waist for the Thames. She has a tartan skirt for Scotland.

(She once tried to honor Ireland and got a glare for the suggestion from Ireland himself, so she’d carefully let the matter rest. Wales and Scotland had laughed at her, but seemed happy enough with their place in her presentation, at least. They tease her, though, when Albia isn’t looking.)

England also has absolutely no problem with choosing the most _delightfully_ low-cut blouses to show off a truly magnificent chest.

That part was to honor Albia, of course. Her great queen changed her faces, her hair, her clothes, but her figure tended to remain the same. So if England were to take her cues from the wonderful lady that had led her to greatness, even in such trying times, what better way?

And Albia _was_ wonderful. Albia was everything. Thousands of years, and Albia had done everything for England.

When England sank, Albia rallied and corralled the sparks to save her. When the other Queens died, Albia survived and cared for her country. When other countries had powerful weapons or dangerous sparks, why, the Queen did her utmost to take those weapons and sparks for her own, to _protect_ England from herself and from others.

Albia was wonderful, and beautiful, and when she held England close and told her that the country served her oh so well, England could feel only happiness.

What torture could ever compare to Albia’s dissatisfaction with her kingdom?

o.o.o.o.o

Shining Coalition used to be beautiful.

He’d been dressed to the nines, just as all of Andronicus’s court had done, and had looked exactly as noble and aristocratic as the features of an Empire should have been. He also had pink hair, but that had long since gone white.

They’d called him Empire. Just Empire. They hadn’t wanted to imagine that there’d ever be one other than him, that he’d ever fail, that he’d ever fall.

“It’s considered a women’s color, now,” Paris told him. They sifted through their cards, set one down on the pile, and then drew a new one. “Especially for young girls. Pink is _feminine_. Pastel. Soft. Blue’s for boys now, apparently.”

Empire laughed. The noise rocked through his chest, and then turned into a retching cough. Prende put a hand to his back, light and careful, until he recovered.

“Are you alright?” Paris asked.

“No worse than before,” he assured them. He breathed in, and it rattled, drops of what he _hoped_ was phlegm clinging to his esophagus and shivering in the passage of air. They might have been half-dried globules of blood, but he tried not to think about that. He’d long since stopped hoping they’d simply let him die, just hoped that they’d keep him alive enough to be in less pain than before.

Belief in a dead nation inspired hope in many, but for the nation itself, that belief after a death so near-complete was only pain.

“Have they forgotten how many white uniforms dyed themselves pink from a failure to wash out the blood from the battle previous?” Empire rasped out, once he’d caught his breath. He considered wiping his mouth against the tattered sleeve at his wrist, but Paris drew a handkerchief from their sleeve, saving him the trouble. He squinted at it, trying to make out the delicate design through the dim light and his own fading eyesight, but gave it up as a lost cause.

“No, simply trends,” Paris said. They shrugged. “The false Heterodyne a few months ago was all decked out in pink because of it. She was trying to emphasize that she was a girl, and that she was harmless, I think. Safe for the Storm King to marry.”

“The new Storm King is as false as she was,” Prende asserted.

“I consider Andronicus dead,” Empire said. Prende shot him a dirty look. “Or at least, no longer fit to rule on basis of his choices being dangerous for the people. I would welcome a replacement.”

“Andronicus is the only reason you are still alive,” Prende hissed.

“And I resent him for it every day,” Empire told her.

Prende flopped back, glaring at him.

“It’s your turn,” Paris told her.

Prende leveraged herself back up, and reached for her cards. “Very well.”

Prende and Empire were trapped together. They’d been trapped, sentinels to the King, for two hundred years. Paris, who could manifest in anything people considered theirs, was more than capable of manifesting in the far reaches of the Hermitorium and the Corbettite’s maze of vaults. They were Empire’s most frequent visitor, though the Immortal Library and her endless paper dress stopped by rather often, and stayed for longer. Corbettite, every ten years or so, drifted through with a Klabautermann.

None others, though. It was enough to keep them sane, but it was not living.

When Paris left, Empire and Prende lapsed back into silence. Empire closed his clouded eyes, breathed deep, and reached out.

A young woman in a hatshop in Naples, daydreaming about the return of the storm king sweeping over the continent and taking out the Mad Spark that ruled her town. She’d hoped for the Baron to do the same, but he’d never gotten that far.

A half-mad old man in Sturmhalten straining with every fiber of his being against the wasp that enslaved him, and failing. He knew the rumors that his young prince had been a descendant of Andronicus’s, if far from the only one, and hoped for salvation.

A child in Frankfurt, reading a history book, delving into the romance of Andronicus and Euphrosynia, and then about the destruction of the Shining Coalition. He raised a hand and asked his teacher how it compared to the fall of the Pax Transylvania, and with every word the teacher spoke, became enraptured with the idea of a return of the peace that both empires had promised.

A dancer in Paris, dreaming about performing for royalty.

A spark at the palace of enlightenment, wishing for patronage by someone who would understand her work.

A server in a coffee shop in Vienna, whose grandfather had told her stories about an ancestor that had fought the Jägerkin under the banner of Valois.

So many people. So many with idle, half-baked fantasies of the king’s return.

A king gone mad with power that made him a monster, trapped in time just meters away.

Sturmhalten herself, with a clank leading her people under the young Baron’s watchful eye.

The details faded, leaving him no more aware of modern life than before, but he felt the belief and yearning.

Empire dozed for weeks on end, waking only when someone chose to visit, Paris for a game of cards and gossip, and Library to share a book or three that had come out since her last time stopping by.

(Prende read aloud to him, then. The books were nice, but he could no longer see well enough for words that small. He didn’t have to strain much for the lovely cards that Paris brought to play, but books were beyond him.)

He felt it, when Martellus Von Blitzengaard escaped the time bubble that had entrapped Mechanicsburg, and when Aaronev Tarvek Sturmvoraus had done the same.

He waited.

He opened his eyes when his door had opened. He watched as the children spoke, ruminating over what _he_ was, watched as the old woman tried to steal her way in and was stopped by Prende.

“Well done, dear lady,” he said, and Prende ignored him.

“Long have I watched with naught but spirits for company,” she said. “Why are you here?”

“I—”

“ _You_ are _trespassing_ ,” Prende insisted. She’d done the same for Paris and Library at first, but gave up after a while. She preferred their company to the rules, and they were not human or construct or clank enough to matter. “I ask this of the ones in the doorway.”

“Careful with your toys, Prende,” Empire said, as she squeezed and shocked the knight. She turned to look at him, and he gave her a relic’s smile, full of empty spaces where teeth had fallen out, occasionally grown back, and then fallen right back out as the chance of a new Storm King had faded.

Prende turned to the people in the doorway.

“Well? _You_ are not with this one,” she said.

“No. _We_ are with the immortal library,” one of the young men said.

“She has visited me on occasion,” Prende told him. “She says you are doing well.”

“Er, yeah, well enough,” the young man said. The blonde girl with the glasses was eyeing Prende and Empire with an air of sudden interest. She already had been, of course, but this was more… intense. “She?”

“The Immortal Library has her own spirit,” Prende said. “Why have you come?”

Empire continued to smile as they explained, about the new king and their desire for the Lantern, as Prende shut them down for that very desire.

He did not smile when he was too slow to stop the knight from taking Prende’s Lantern.

And then the young one, oh she _tried_ to help but she just broke the connection and—

**“YOU!”**

Andronicus.

The children scrambled, at Prende’s word.

Empire closed his eyes and struggled to his feet. He felt a fire in his veins, a dawning power as Andronicus began to break through the wall and the children stared in horror.

**“What is this place? Where has that treacherous conjurer sent me?”**

He questioned Prende. His eyes roved the group, and landed on—

**“My Empire!”**

“Not yours,” Empire said. He opened his eyes, already seeing clearer. It wasn’t worth it. “Not anymore. The world considers you dead, and I fell to pieces. The world renounced you and seeks an heir for your empty crown, and I choose to support them.”

Andronicus gaped at him for a half moment, Prende already trying to talk him down, and then his jaw snapped shut. **“Another betrayal, then! Wizards and spirits and machines, and not a drop of loyalty between them!”**

“My king, I still—” Prende tried, poor woman, but she failed.

Empire had expected no less.

He could not move to help as Prende and Andronicus yelled, as Andronicus left, taking his Muse with him. He had not the power to stop him, and words would do no more to help than they had when Andronicus had still been truly alive.

“Everybody just take what you can and go!” The youngest knight, little more than a girl, shouted. A Jäger caught sight of Empire, and recognized him, and held out a hand.

“Hy am Dimo,” he said. There was a body over one shoulder. “Dot guy sed hyu vere heez Empire, yez?”

“Indeed,” Empire said. He hobbled towards the Jäger, eyeing the melting stone. He could feel a tooth growing back, his eyesight clearing. He could not move as quickly as he once had. The Jäger took his hand and use it to toss Empire onto his shoulder. “I was once the Shining Coalition.”

“Hyu look bad,” the Jäger told him. Some of the children, and more knights, were staring at him as they all ran.

“I’ve been dying for two hundred years,” Empire told him. “But I’ve a feeling that’ll be solved one way or another in the next few hours.”

He got set back on his feet when they figured out that the body on the Jäger’s other shoulder had been switched out. He waited until they’d solved that, already heading off down the hallway. He rather wished he had a cane.

“EMPIRE!”

He stumbled right back as Paris had materialized before him, their eyes wide.

“What is that? What happened? I can feel a burning tunnel through me, what _happened?”_

“There was an old woman, a Smoke Knight,” Empire told her. He smiled, still gap-toothed but nearly fixed. “She broke Andronicus out.”

Paris stared at him, and then disappeared.

“What was that about?” The girl with the symbol of the Heterodyne’s demanded, jogging up to him.

“Paris felt him, and came for information,” Empire said. He coughed into his fist, and there was no blood, or even more than a little phlegm. “Now they’ve gone to inform Simon, no doubt.”

“You said that you were… the Empire,” the blond girl said. “Valois’s empire.”

“Yes, I hear there’s a new one under Wulfenbach,” Empire said, grinning as wryly as he can. It’s nice to have teeth. “I believe she’s got a better chance of surviving than I do.”

“Er, sure,” the blonde girl said. “So… you’re the Shining Coalition. Was that really Andronicus Valois?”

“What’s left of him,” Empire confirmed. “Jägerkin, Dimo, yes? Might I lean against you?”

Dimo looked to the blonde girl, and when she nodded, he came over to help Empire.

He could see again, and he had his teeth, but there was still little strength in his bones. It was building, though, with every meter Andronicus took towards the surface.

“What did he mean, when he said that he could feel his sword?” the blonde girl asked.

They talk about it for a bit, rumors they’ve heard and things they know for sure, and only ask Empire for confirmation on the more fanciful parts. The Jäger did more of the talking.

The burn in Empire’s veins was crawling towards his heart, uncomfortably warm and feeling like acid.

“Er, sir?”

He opened his eyes. The littlest Smoke Knight. “Yes, child?”

“Violetta,” she said. Her name, presumably. “You’re turning green. And glowing. Kind of like Andronicus was.”

Empire looked down at his hand. “Ah.”

He considered it for a moment. “That’s not good.”

He then shrugged and went on his way.

Two hundred years of resignation did that to a person.

It wasn’t an uneventful trek back to the surface, but he let Dimo and the Smoke Knights and the little-more-than-children take care of it. There was even a little romantic drama, lovely!

 **“MUHAHAHAHA! AT LAST,** MISERABLE SURFACE WORLDERS, YOU HAVE **FALLEN INTO MY CLUTCHES!”**

And then there was that.

The other blonde’s father, apparently. Empire was a little surprised that their captors insisted on doing the whole ‘bathed and brought’ thing to _all_ of them, including himself and the Jäger. The only exceptions were the Smoke Knights, who had apparently disappeared before being captured. Good for them, he supposed.

“It’s been two hundred years since I had a bath,” he noted. The Jäger laughed and offered him a fist, and only the intermittent visits from Paris had him knowing that he was supposed to bump it.

He did not bump it.

“I am a spirit,” he said. “And it was not by choice.”

“Baths are nice!” Zeetha chimed in, grinning widely even as Agatha (a _Heterodyne_ , goodness, and wasn’t that exciting?) fumed. “Did you enjoy this one?”

“I did, though I must say I would prefer better clothing,” Empire said. “But I’d only be able to manifest rags, right now. This is better than that would be.”

“Hyu could get an outfeet de Jäger vay!” Dimo suggested.

Empire blinked at him. “No.”

“But—”

“I can’t do that. I am metaphysically banned from fighting people myself,” he continued. He frowned. Actually, if he wasn’t manifesting clothing, then maybe he had enough energy for…

A cane appeared in his hand.

He smiled at Dimo. “I have a cane now.”

“Hy ken see dot.”

“It’s nice.”

“Dot’s goot.”

Empire did not interfere with, well, anything that happened after that. He hadn’t been lying about not being allowed to fight people himself, metaphysically. He did have _some_ abilities, and under the right circumstances _could_ fight… but not here. Not now.

He waited.

And rescue came, from the Library. She fell into step alongside him as the curators explained what had happened.

“He escaped, then?” She asked.

“Unfortunately,” he said. “I don’t suppose you have any good plans to fix the situation?”

“Darling, I collect _knowledge_. While that does mean I know plenty of battleplans used throughout history, I’m not exactly an expert in creating new ones myself,” she said, and then smiled and tapped his nose. “That’s you.”

“Well, I suppose we’re quite doomed, then.”

She laughed at him. That was good. He liked it when she laughed. It made those paper-beige curls bounce around.

“You’re glowing,” she told him.

“Andronicus’s effect, I’m afraid.” He held out the arm that wasn’t using his cane. “Might I take the lady’s arm?”

“You may indeed,” she said. “So, it seems quite a few people are learning that Andronicus is back.”

“I know.”

“You’re filling out.”

He knew he was. He could feel it, every ounce of flesh and fat returning to him as people learned and believed in Andronicus and, in turn, the Empire again. It wasn’t real, though, wasn’t true; he could feel the burning with every bit of strength.

“Are you his?” Library asked, her voice quiet.

“No,” he said. “But I am tied to him until he’s truly dead. For that, I must follow; I need to see this to the end.”

She smiled softly at him, something quite a bit like pity in her eyes, and they reached the pneumatic tubes. He listened half-heartedly to the explanation.

Library took his cheeks between her hands, and pulled him down. Delicately, she pressed her lips to his.

“I do hope this isn’t the last time I’ll be seeing you,” she said.

“You could follow me topside,” he said. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

She shook her head, that sad smile still gracing her face. “I appreciate the thought, but I’ve a great many books to save from the events in the reservoir, and I’ve wasted quite enough time seeing you off.”

“Wasted? My dear lady—”

She pressed a finger to his lips and leaned in close. “Hush. _Go._ And come by for a visit if you survive.”

He ducked his head, bit his lip through his own smile, and nodded. “As you bid me, my dear Immortal Library. May I see those lovely eyes of yours again, some day.”

One more peck to his cheek, and she pushed him through to the tube.

He took a seat on the floor, knowing that this trip would not be the thing to kill him, and waited.

Empire followed the children, the Jäger, the Knights. He needed the cane less and less with every meter they walked, the acid strength flooding him. He could feel what felt like a film of fine mist covering his skin, and when he asked Zeetha, she confirmed it.

“It looks kinda… funky,” she admitted. “Like you got sick with something and you’re about to blow up.”

“You’ve seen that before?” He asked.

“Not much,” she said. “But Agatha over there and her _boyfriends_ —”

“Not my boyfriends!”

“Got sick with something that made them change colors and then almost explode,” Zeetha finished. “They had to do some weird science thing to fix it.”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

She shrugged. “Hey, I’m not a Spark, I’m just here to do a bit of politics and a lot of punching things.”

That was enough to make Empire laugh. Yes, these children were amusing. Probably quite dangerous, but amusing.

He hadn’t had enough of amusing, down in the crypt.

In the cab (stolen by the Jäger, unsurprisingly), he had a chance to hear about one of the prospective new Storm Kings.

“Sure—Martellus is a jerk, but he’s got an army, and he doesn’t fight fair,” the littlest Smoke Knight said. (Violetta. Yes, Violetta. But she was so _small_ …) “That guy in the crypts… he’s more of a monster than anything else that this point.”

“That he is,” Empire said, and the girls jumped in place and turned to blink at him like they’d forgotten he was there. “This Martellus, he’s one of the heirs, yes?”

“I… yeah,” Violetta said. “He’s got the best claim after Tarvek, but last we heard, Tarvek was still stuck in the timestop…”

“I see,” Empire said. He wondered if there was anything else to say, and then the vehicle lurched to a stop.

What followed was an entertaining byplay of subtle fighting, direct fighting, attempts at thievery of clothing that didn’t entirely work out, and a commentary on the aristocracy that suggested that nothing had changed in two hundred years.

Then there were revenants, which Paris had complained about quite a lot, and _Geisterdamen_ , which he’d barely even heard rumors about, a few deaths, several hijackings of the systems of Paris, and then yet more clothing thievery.

Partway through, the Heterodyne Girl had taken apart the vehicle they were in to enact her plan. It was certainly an adventure.

And… there was a power.

There was a strength growing in him, belief, that didn’t come from Andronicus. People were believing in a Storm King, and the peace he represented, to a degree where it was _real_ , not just distant imaginings and half-baked plots.

His cane shifted, shortly before they arrived. He didn’t need it anymore, and so it became the sort of thin, understated sword he’d carried around, back when he’d just played at being part of Andronicus’s court. The green mist still clung to his skin, but below it, clothing wove itself into existence. Paris had told him well enough of the changes in fashion, demonstrated plenty of it themself, and the Library had brought along books that addressed the changes once in a while.

He was old-fashioned, though. He brought back the military uniform he’d worn in Sturmhalten, fit for a new war on a new playing ground, in white and gold and few careful strips as black as the inky depths of Library’s eyes.

(Er.)

(Not the best time.)

But there were people who wanted to belong to a Storm King, or at least ally with him, and the return of the Coalition.

“Your hair is still pretty pale,” Zeetha noted. “Can’t tell the exact color through the mist, though. Always like that?”

“Indeed.”

And then they arrived.

There was already a battle going on, small for now, something to do with the Geisterdamen and the new Storm King.

Not the best claim, Violetta had said, but very, very close.

And if Empire was right, his senses told him that the actual best claimant was somewhere nearby. Curious.

Simon locked eyes with him, as he reminisced. The Master of Paris hesitated only a moment, Paris at his elbow. “Are you his?”

Empire shook his head. “I do not wish to be. His ruinous state has kept me confined to a personal hell for two hundred years, old friend.”

“Unfortunate, that.”

“Paris is kind to visitors, at least.”

“A long visit, then.”

“And I had some books to pass the time.”

Zeetha snorted, covering up the laugh with her hand. Then she winced, and groaned, as the bruises on her face protested.

Empire pushed past to look at the claimant. Martellus, ey? “So you are the one who seeks the Lightning Crown.”

“Er,” Martellus said, glancing to Simon and then back to Empire. “Yes, I am the new Storm King. You are…”

Empire grinned, mouth filled with straight, perfect, beautiful teeth. He beckoned Martellus closer, and whispered into his ear. “I am the Shining Coalition.”

He leaned back as Martellus froze, and then straightened with haste. Empire smiled. “Call me Empire. Now, I do believe one of the two largest roadblocks to your claim is about to—”

And this was the point at which Andronicus burst through the ground in a massive gout of flame.

Lovely.

Empire came to the wall to watch as the rest did. Simon’s control of the city was more than just impressive, and Andronicus was as much of a monster as he looked. They yelled a lot, and threw rocks a lot, and Andronicus demanded to know where Euphrosynia was. Paris darted around behind them, and then took up a position behind Colette, directing and helping her when they could.

“Aren’t you tired of this?” He asked, glancing at Prende.

“He’s unwell,” she said, looking just a little uncomfortable.

“He’s so obsessed with his bride that he’s undead and endangering civilians in a pointless fight,” Empire said. He heard himself get brought up, a brief mention by Andronicus, and then leaned over the short wall to yell, “You aren’t worth it anymore! You’re a disgrace, Valois, and Europa would be better off if you stayed dead instead of running around destroying it again!”

It took a rather vicious attack from Simon to ensure that Andronicus did not attempt to kill his own Coalition directly.

Too bad. Death would have been nice right about now.

He kept an eye on the new king, tensing at the reveal of the old sword, but did not so much as twitch when the other Jägerkin revealed themselves.

Dimo was nice enough; the Lady Heterodyne seemed to favor a softer, kinder approach than her ancestors, and he trusted she’d keep a hand on the reins, so to speak.

**“—ONLY OF DEATH!”**

“I do hope he regains something of himself after he’s truly dead,” Empire said, watching the undead soldiers. “If only so he can feel the shame of this.”

“You’re glowing,” Prende informed him.

“I’m aware.”

The glow was stronger now. It increased, as Simon buried his old friend and Colette dragged herself and her father both out of the way of the undead soldiers’ questing fingers. As Andronicus broke out in the air again, more monstrous than before.

Of course, he wasn’t the only monster on the field. Even disregarding the undead soldiers that young Martellus leapt out to manage, the Jägerkin chose that moment to get involved. The lady with the silver hair apparently had something of a grudge against him.

And a bear. She also apparently had a bear.

The increase of the glow was almost enough to make him miss the way the years fell off of him as Martellus fought his own soldiers, laying them to rest from the wretched magic wrought on them by the corruption of the Platonic Solid.

(The strength he felt, also, as Tarvek worked with Colette and Paris, a Storm Prince himself.)

“I can see his bones,” Empire commented, as Simon melted the weapons and the majority of the armor on Andronicus’s chest, revealing the bones that shadowed against the glowing of the Undead King’s own skin. “That’s bad.”

“There’s no call to rub it in,” Prende sniped back.

“There kind of is.”

The Lady Heterodyne blasted Andronicus, and… so close. So very close. And Andronicus’s mind was so very far from what it had once been.

Empire jumped down, just as Andronicus finally fell, and there was a strange noise. He only barely heard it, but it was a bone-deep thrumming that emanated from his landing. The lot of them turned to stare, eyes wide at the built man in the military uniform from two hundred years prior, his waist-length, visibly silky, _pastel pink_ hair drifting in the wind behind him, untouched by the smoke and grime in the air.

He was beautiful. He was professional. He was surreal.

He stopped in front of Martellus, and smiled down at him. Barely more than a boy, still, but… potential, if he was willing to listen. He leaned in to whisper again. “You’re only halfway there, but I’ll accept it for now.”

Empire stepped back and swept his hands out to the side as he bowed, and the lights came on to shine down on Martellus. Thankfully, the boy had already gathered his wits enough to pose.

Empire did as he’d done so far, after that. He followed, and listened, and watched. He heard later about what happened to Colette, and Simon, and an traitorous professor.

But that was not his place to interfere, not yet.

Colette made her announcements.

The battle was over, for now.

And the humans slept.

“It’s over,” Paris said. They sat to one side of him. Library sat at the other.

Prende was missing. Empire worried for her.

“You’ll have to go,” Paris said. They looked at Empire out of the corner of their eye. “Colette is closing the city to outsiders, because of the number of revenants. You’ll be going with Von Blitzengaard, I expect?”

Empire shrugged. “Most likely him. I may follow that Tarvek fellow around, now that I’m free to move. I’m interested at seeing what comes next.”

Library rested her head against Empire’s shoulder, fingers playing with a lock of his hair. “You should write me.”

“Not visit?”

“Colette’s closing the city,” Library said.

“And the Library plays by those rules?” Empire asked, turning a little to look down at her. “ _Spirits_ play by those rules?”

She blinked at him, ever so slowly, and Empire was suddenly aware of the fact that Paris was no longer with them.

He leaned in. So did she. It was something they’d had difficulty enjoying, in the two hundred years where every move had been pain.

It was sweet. It was chaste. It was… nice.

He hoped to do it again, some day.

She pulled away, looking into his eyes for a long moment, and then fell into his arms, face buried in his chest.

“I’m glad you’re alright.”

“I’m rather glad of it myself.”

They stayed that way ‘til sunrise. They repeated it the next night, and when the Baron’s ship showed up, just as Martellus was about to leave, and shortly after Tarvek already _had_ , Empire took notice.

There was a young girl following Gilgamesh Wulfenbach. The young baron spoke with Colette, if only briefly, but the girl wandered around.

Green hair, like the Skifandrian girl. She looked perhaps fourteen, short for her age, and wore a blue-and-silver uniform, of sorts. She stared at everything with hungry eyes. Mourning. Desperate.

Her face was pale, Paris whispered, far paler than before.

She looked sickly.

Empire walked over to her, and leaned down. “Hello, young one.”

She looked up at him. “Hello.”

“I hear you’ve been trying to take my spot.”

She stared at him, and then blinked rather rapidly. “I wasn’t trying to replace you.”

“I know.”

“I just wanted them to stop fighting.”

“I know.”

“They—they didn’t want to stop fighting.”

“They never do. That’s why we’re here. We give them a reason to stop.”

Pax Transylvania stared into the eyes of the Shining Coalition, wide and hungry and desperate. A nation-child forced into the world too early and an empire forced into half-death for too long, with the same desires across generations.

She flung her arms around his waist and burst into tears.

He held the girl close, ran a soothing hand down her hair, and prayed to gods he’d never believed in that she’d make it out better than he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stretched these themes a little, but:
> 
> Literal cake - offered to Agatha by Londinium
> 
> Cheesecake - England's got the boobs
> 
> Beefcake - Shining Coalition USED to be one, and now is one again!
> 
> I didn't plan on shipping Library and Empire. They were just doing an information exchange and I hadn't even planned out her personality yet, and then SUDDENLY CHEMISTRY! So. Yeah. That happened.


End file.
